


This Memory of You I Cannot Erase

by Sandrene09



Category: Smosh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Amnesia, Angst, M/M, Pre-Relationship, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrene09/pseuds/Sandrene09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The obligatory amnesia AU fic…with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Memory of You I Cannot Erase

**Author's Note:**

> A repost of my fic which could also be found at my lj and my tumblr.

_Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.  
—Michel de Montaigne_

Memories are like sand.

It isn’t in the way most people think it is—that it is like sand in the sense that one loses some as time goes by—but rather, it is comparable to sand because it never goes away. Harsh winds may blow and strong storms may occur, but sand will still be there—maybe not in the palm of one’s hands, but somewhere, be it in pant pockets or on rubber slippers.

This is what Ian learned way back, when he was still rising up the ranks, a young, fresh-faced newbie who had no idea what to do, much less how to do it—whatever it was he was supposed to do. It was constantly hammered into his head that memories are never truly gone—it’s just that someone else has to take possession of them.

Memories are like sand—he had learned that a long time ago. What he didn’t expect is the realization that love is a bit like sand, too.

-.-.-.-

This is a scene from a normal night at the emergency ward at the hospital: an ambulance stopping in front of the entryway, the patient inside quickly but carefully brought out and into the emergency room. Usually, there is a loved one crying nearby, and if the accident is particularly horrible, a Reaper is there as well, ready to do the job.

Sometimes, like tonight, there is a Smarati instead of a Reaper.

Ian looks at the woman seated on a chair beside the hospital bed and feels sorry for her. The harsh lighting of the room does not quite emphasize the good aesthetic qualities of the man lying on the bed, but it does make something glint, and it catches Ian’s eye.

There is a diamond ring on her finger.

The woman is beautiful with her fair skin and straight brown hair, and even while she cries, her tears cascading down her cheeks, she looks untouchable, a kind of beauty meant for museums—to be looked at, appreciated, but never touched.

It is obvious that she cares very much for the man lying on the hospital bed.

Ian never bothers to learn their names. The others call him insensitive—even _selfish_ —for it, but he doesn’t care. After all, he is there to take the memories of the man—some of which probably involving the woman—and if he was a living, breathing, physical being, he is certain that they would never ask for his name, so he doesn’t bother. Instead, he waits for when he can do his job—for when he can take the memories he is supposed to take—and gets his information from there.

He stands in the corner of the room and looks around him. Outside the doorway, he can see at least three Reapers. He shakes his head, woeful—he understands that the people those Reapers have come for are nearing their time, but it never hurts less for the people they love.

The woman is still crying and Ian sees her take the man’s hand in hers. He wishes he could tell her that the man isn’t going to die so he could at least reassure her a little bit, but it isn’t in his power to do so. His job is to make sure that he gets the memories he’s supposed to get—nothing more, nothing less.

He walks toward the man lying on the hospital bed, winces as he looks at the man’s state. He had heard the doctors speak in hushed tones a while ago, muttering, “got robbed and was left for dead in some dark alleyway, the poor thing,” and “not sure when he’s going to wake or if he’s going to wake at all—he got hit in the head pretty badly,” and he had seen the woman break down. He looks down at the man, sees a handsome complexion beneath the multitude of bruises, and smiles sadly.

This is how life goes. There is nothing he can do for the man or his fiancée. The only thing he can do is his job.

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and puts his palm on the man’s forehead.

And then, he is gone.

Nobody notices.

-.-.-.-

There are times when Ian looks down at his hands and thinks the worst of himself. Why wouldn’t he? Those are the hands that do nothing but take, and take, and take. No matter how much his kind can sugarcoat the meaning of their job—no matter how many times they tell him that their job is to take memories until the owner can get them back—there is no denying the truth that all they do is steal.

Besides, Ian thinks bitterly, most of the people they take memories from don’t even get them back.

A man can have a million different things, can have a room full of cash, but nothing can quite replace the loss of memories—the loss of precious moments, of bright smiles, of experiences that one can never quite have again. When a man loses his memories, there is a loss indescribable—a pain felt in the bones, the heart, the soul. The mind aches with knowing that there are missing puzzle pieces, aches with the knowledge that there is a possibility that those memories will never be remembered ever again.

So yes, sometimes Ian looks at his hands and curses his very being.

Memories are like sand—this he knows. Every time he does his job, he feels like the bully who kicks down a kid’s sandcastle.

When he leaves, no one is there to miss him.

-.-.-.-

There was a man, before.

His name is Matt, and his memories were beautiful—still are, actually, because he hasn’t gotten them back yet.

He had been caught in a car accident on the freeway—an accident that brought half a dozen Reapers to the hospital—and the injuries that resulted from the accident was plentiful.

Ian remembers touching his forehead and slipping into his memories. He remembers smiling sadly as he took and stole memories etched into the mind—memories filled with laughter. He remembers talking to Matt, urging him to be strong and carry on because his girlfriend was still waiting for him.

Most of all, he remembers the man slipping away from him and into the land of the living, recognition evident in his eyes once he saw his girlfriend—her name is Mari, Ian remembers, because it’s his job to remember—but memories missing from his mind.

Until now, he still doesn’t remember how he and Mari met.

Ian wishes he will, soon.

-.-.-.-

When Ian opens his eyes, he almost staggers under the warm weight of pure _love_ and _affection_ that the man’s mind seems to radiate. He can feel a myriad of sensations—love and affection, yes, but also confusion and fear.

This is his landscape. Ian knows every way in the human psyche, knows which memories to take and which to leave alone. This is where he’ll take, and take, and take, and give nothing in return but encouragement for the man to have the will to go back to where he belongs.

Ian smiles sadly as he walks down a bright white hallway, his focus on the man lying on a hospital bed, his eyes closed. The psyche of the man is warm and welcoming, and here Ian is, about to abuse the man’s hospitality.

He looks at the walls on either side of him, sees memories he would rather not take away, and knows that when the man wakes, all he will see on the walls are bright white nothingness. It is only Ian’s blue eyes that can see memories in vivid color, as if they’re happening right in front of him at this very moment.

Some of these memories, he will take, he knows.

Ian reaches his destination, and for a moment, he chooses to stand still, chooses to look at the man before him.

In the land of the living, this man has bruises on his body and scars hidden within. In this white nothingness, there is nothing but pure beauty.

Ian puts his hand on the man’s forehead, and his palm glows sky blue.

The man opens his eyes and Ian smiles at him kindly.

“Hello,” Ian says.

The man looks at him, surprise evident in his chocolate brown eyes. “Am I dead? Are you God? Is this heaven?”

Ian has been to this white nothingness so many times, has catered to so many people, that he no longer finds the stream of questions alarming. “You’re not dead, I’m not God, and this is not heaven,” he answers.

“Then who are you? And where am I?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain where you are,” Ian admits because if he’s going to take away the man’s memories, he might as well be as honest as he possibly can. “You can call me Ian. I’m not God, but I am a Smarati.”

The man furrows his eyebrows. “Smarati?”

“It’s Sanskrit for ‘ _he remembers_ ’.”           

The man sits up in bed before swinging his legs to the side. “What is this? You said it’s hard to explain where we are, but I’d like you to try, please.”

Ian nods. “This is…stasis. You _do_ remember the robbery, right?”

The man nods.

“Well, you’re in a coma, and until you’re well enough and ready to go back to the land of the living, you’re stuck with me here.”

The man hops off the bed and looks at his hospital gown with disgust. “Whatever you are— _Smarati_ or something—do you have a change of clothes for me?”

Ian laughs, snapping his fingers. Immediately, clothes appear on the bed, and Ian turns his back, giving the man his much-needed privacy.

After a few minutes, the man clears his throat. “So you’re Ian,” he says.

Ian turns around and nods.

“I’m Anthony,” the man says, holding out his hand. Ian takes his hand and shakes it, reveling in the warmth the man exudes.

“Nice to meet you, Anthony,” Ian says, before walking away. Anthony follows him, having no idea where to go.

“So why are you here with me?” asks Anthony.

Ian smiles wanly, looking at Anthony. “I’m here to keep you company before you go back, and I’m here to help you heal, but mostly I’m here to take your memories.”

Anthony stops, and Ian knows what’s coming next. It’s always anger, followed by fear, followed by bargaining.

It doesn’t come.

Ian is surprised when he just sees him breathe in deeply, before nodding slowly.

“You’re not…mad?” Ian finds himself asking, because in all his years doing the job, this is the first time something like this happened.

Anthony shakes his head. “I’m not really surprised. I mean, I took a beating back there which caused me to go into coma. I didn’t exactly expect to wake up with all my memories.”

Anthony’s words should make Ian feel better—they don’t. Instead, Ian feels saddened because right in front of him is a man with a welcoming personality and a whole lot of love to give being realistic and knowing that it is to be expected that he will not come out of the coma with his memory intact.

It is during times like these when Ian has to stop himself from giving into the urge to stare at his hands and hate, and hate, and hate.

“Right you are,” Ian forces out the words from his throat.

For a few minutes, there is nothing but silence between the two of them—Anthony is busy looking at the white nothingness around him, and Ian is lost in his own thoughts.

“Where are we going?” Anthony asks.

Ian stops walking and looks at the black tunnel to their left, a stark contrast to the white nothingness. “We’re going to the first memory I’m going to take.”

Anthony bites his lip. He then nods, and he follows Ian into the black tunnel.

He does not look back.

-.-.-.-

This is what he believes: that they are nothing more than glorified thieves. They take what is not theirs and they keep them, like trophies from an atrocious murder.

He absolutely hates it.

There is nothing he can do, no matter how much he hates what is constantly asked of him to do, because this is what he has been created for. He was, is, and always will be meant to take away memories and guard them over until the right time comes and the owner remembers.

Most of the time, the owner never gets them back.

-.-.-.-

There was a woman, and her name was Rose.

Now, Ian knows she’s called Rosalina in a sanitarium that doesn’t care about her preferred name.

She and her girlfriend had been cornered in a dark alleyway in Ohio by a couple of homophobic jocks.

Ian remembers seeing the Reaper lead Rose’s girlfriend away from her body, remembers slipping into Rose’s mind and feeling the intense pain and longing.

He remembers not knowing how to urge Rose to heal and leave the stasis of her mind—how could he, when he knew that nothing was waiting for her in the land of the living, not even her lover?—remembers refusing to take away memories of her girlfriend, because he knew that was all she was going to have.

Most of all, he remembers when Rose woke up, remembering her girlfriend and her attackers, and in her tired and angry state, calling the police about her attack.

Because it is conservative Ohio, no one believed her—not even the police—when she talked about the homophobic nature of her attackers.

This is when Ian learned his lesson.

There will always be memories meant to be taken.

He has no choice in what those memories will be.

-.-.-.-

“I remember this,” he says, and Ian thinks, _of course you do_. He doesn’t say it, of course, because he knows that people aren’t like him—though they have a lot of memories, not all those are always in the forefront of the mind.

People aren’t like him because they are surprised when they discover that they still remember certain events, whereas it is his job to never forget.

He takes, and takes, and takes, yes, but he also keeps them. It’s his job to remember.

Ian looks at the stage, at the multitude of students seated in front, and knows that it is Anthony’s high school graduation.

The sun is bright, the air is pleasantly cool, and younger Anthony is walking up the stairs, a smile on his face.

Ian is surprised when he finds that _oh,_ he wishes he was there.

Anthony looks around, marvels at the warmth he could feel from the sun bright above, and says softly, “I don’t want to forget.”

Ian stops himself from saying that he doesn’t want him to forget, too.

-.-.-.-

When Anthony is seated on a bed nicer than the hospital one—Ian wants him to be at least a little comfortable during this time, so he did what he could—he looks at Ian with a searching look, as if he’s trying to look for an answer to his silent question.

“What is it?” Ian asks because Anthony’s eyes are quite beautiful and he feels helpless under his gaze—like a butterfly pinned under a glass frame.

Anthony shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just that I don’t know you, yet, and it feels like you already know me.”

Ian knows what he’s trying to say, knows that he feels his privacy is being violated, so he nods. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Anthony nods. He lies down, and closes his eyes.

Ian starts to walk away, when Anthony’s voice stops him.

“I…uhm. Can you check on my fiancée?” His voice is wavering, uncertain. “I just want to know how she’s doing.”

Ian says, “I will,” before walking away.

-.-.-.-

Memories are like sand.

When one builds something with memories, it is a sandcastle. When one digs deep into memories to look for a certain one, it is an etching on the sand.

No matter what it is, be it a sandcastle or an etching, it is gone once the ocean’s waves crash onto the shore.

Everything is a clean slate.

-.-.-.-

Ian looks at the woman seated on the chair, her arms on the mattress and her head upon them, and thinks that she’s very lucky.

Because it is his job to know, take, and remember, it is easy for him to say that the woman—Kalel—is heartbroken. There is a kind of misery that surrounds her, even while she sleeps.

She’s beautiful, even while heartbroken.

Ian leaves.

-.-.-.-

The next time Ian enters Anthony’s stasis, it doesn’t feel any different from the first time. It still feels warm and welcoming, and Ian finds that he wants to wrap the feeling around him like a blanket and take it everywhere he goes.

He can’t, though, so he walks, and walks, and walks until he reaches the clearing he had turned into a room.

Anthony is awake and seated on a couch, looking at the room around him. When he notices Ian, he smiles, and moves to the other end of the couch, making space for him.

Ian sits down.

For a short while, there is nothing but silence.

Anthony clears his throat. “So…how is she?”

Ian smiles internally at the compassion this man has in spades, at the love he obviously feels for her, and thinks that she is very lucky, indeed, to have a man like him.

“Heartbroken,” he says bluntly—with the way his job’s meaning is sugarcoated by the others, he no longer has the strength or will to sugarcoat other things. “She will be okay, but it’s clear that she misses you.”

Anthony takes a deep breath before nodding in understanding. “Thank you,” he says, grateful. “I didn’t think you would actually check up on her.”

Ian shrugs and looks at the television in front of them, finding that he could no longer bear the weight of Anthony’s gaze. “I’m going to take some of your memories. It’s the least I can do.”

“How long am I going to stay here?” Anthony asks.

“I don’t know. It all depends on how fast your mind can heal,” Ian answers.

Anthony closes his eyes and leans back on the couch. “I want to go back, you know? I want to be back as soon as possible.”

Ian hears what he doesn’t say—that he wants to go back for his _fiancée_ , that he wants to be back, so she won’t hurt as much. He hears the love and affection in his tone, and feels the guilt more. He doesn’t want to take this man’s memories.

He has to, though.

“I know you want to go back,” he says because it’s true—he does know that. “You have to heal first, before you get to go back.”

Anthony hums under his breath in response.

The silence that falls upon them is comfortable. Anthony has his eyes closed, and Ian is looking at the room he made, looking at the walls that he knows are painted white in Anthony’s eyes, but are really mental defenses he has conjured, growing up. There is a kind of companionship between them—between the man about to lose his memories, and a man who wishes he has his own memories to cherish.

Like many other times, it’s Anthony who breaks the silence. “Are you going to tell me something about you?”

Ian looks at Anthony when he says, “there’s nothing much to tell. All I can tell you is that I’m Ian.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow. “Well, what’s your favorite memory?”

Ian smiles sadly. “My favorite memory isn’t mine,” he says softly.

Anthony nods in understanding. “Tell me about it, anyway.”

-.-.-.-

There was a woman. Her name is Marzia.

When Ian had taken Marzia to a certain memory, she had cried softly, and watched silently as the events unfolded.

When they were finished and Ian and Marzia had stepped out of the memory, she didn’t speak for a long time. When she finally spoke, she said, “please remember for me,” and Ian remembers saying, “yes, I will.”

Her English wasn’t very good, but Ian can still say her vows word by word. Until now, he remembers everything from that moment for her—remembers the white satin dress she wore, the smile on her face when she walked down the aisle, and the tears that finally escaped her eyes when her husband-to-be spoke his vows.

This is his favorite memory because he remembers seeing so many people so happy in just one place, remembers the smile on Marzia’s face before she returns to the land of the living, her memory incomplete.

Until now, he remembers every single detail of the wedding.

He wishes he could forget, so that Marzia could remember.

-.-.-.-

Ian looks at the scene before him and commits every detail to memory.

He takes note of the rumpled bed sheets and the posters on the wall. He looks at the desk, the chair, the computer…everything.

This is his job, and as much as he hates his job, he is good at it, and it must be done.

“I…I don’t even remember this,” Anthony confesses.

Ian doesn’t look at him. Instead, he chooses to look at the younger Anthony seated on a chair, explaining the internet to his mother.

Ian doesn’t say that it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t remember since he won't remember it when he wakes, anyway.

-.-.-.-

It has been a week.

Outside, Kalel is almost always there, waiting, and waiting, and waiting for her fiancé to come back. Always, she cries, and always, she looks beautiful—a tragic masterpiece in oil paint.

Every day, Ian learns more about Anthony. Anthony doesn’t push for details, but Ian knows Anthony wants to learn something about him, so he talks. He talks about the memories he still has and the memories he’s starting to forget. He talks about his experience with other people.

Sometimes, he talks about Anthony’s fiancée.

Anthony doesn’t always ask him how his fiancée is doing, but Ian keeps an eye on her anyway.

He just doesn’t always tell Anthony. Instead, he waits for Anthony to start talking about her.

-.-.-.-

One night, there is a conversation.

Anthony is lying on the bed, facing Ian who is seated on the couch nearby. He looks at Ian with something like sadness in his eyes, and says, “sometimes, I lie in bed, and I just think about Kalel and the wedding and I think, ‘I’m not ready’.”

Ian doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to sugarcoat anything, doesn’t want to assure Anthony that everything will fall into place, so he stays quiet and waits for Anthony to continue talking.

“I love her,” Anthony says softly, “but sometimes I feel like there’s someone else for me out there, and I feel like the wedding’s going to be a mistake.”

Ian knows just how much it took for Anthony to say those things out loud, because he knows that Anthony isn’t the type of person to share, so he stays silent.

After a few minutes of silence, Anthony murmurs, “thank you.”

-.-.-.-

“What do you want the most?” Anthony asks one day, when they’re walking across freshly-cut grass, their attention on eight year old Anthony.

Ian looks at the younger Anthony lying on the grass, peaceful, and finds himself saying, “my own memories.”

Anthony says nothing, only nodding in understanding.

-.-.-.-

Every time Ian steps into Anthony’s stasis, he feels warm and welcome. It tugs at something within him and sometimes, he just stops and listens to the stillness, pretends that he could hear his heart beat, that he could feel blood pumping through his veins, when it is not the case.

In all the years Ian has been doing his job—in all the years of taking and helping people make it back to the land of the living—he has never felt so alive.

As he walks towards where he knows Anthony will be, he thinks about a painting in oils waiting for Anthony. He thinks about sure and steady brushstrokes, about carefully-planned color combinations, and decides that there is a kind of beauty that an oil painting can never hope to match.

He clears his throat when he reaches the edge of the room. When Anthony looks up and sees him, his entire face brightens, a wide smile appearing.

Ian smiles as well.

-.-.-.-

“You’ve never explained to me how this place works.”

Ian looks at the endless expanse of swirling colors before them and feels sadness wash over him. Anthony can only see white—he cannot appreciate the beauty of his memories.

Ian looks at his feet, at a loss for words. “I don’t know how to explain this to you, actually.”

“What, no one before me has asked about the place?” Anthony asks, incredulous.

Ian shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Ian begins, “they’re more preoccupied with knowing why they’re here, rather than what _here_ is.”

Anthony shrugs. “We’ve already established why I’m here.”

Ian nods, because they _had_ talked about why Anthony’s here. After few moments, he says, “We’re in your subconscious. That’s how accurate I can get.”

There is surprise on Anthony’s face, evident in the widening of his eyes and the slack in his jaw. Ian doesn’t look directly at him, doesn’t dare put his whole attention to the man with the searching gaze beside him, but he looks at him through the corner of his eyes.

“These white walls you see aren’t white,” Ian continues, gesturing towards the bright white that surrounds them. “They’re white to you, but to me, they’re every color and every shape—”

_Like an oil painting_ , he doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “—like a movie trailer. I guess that’s the nearest thing,” he continues, unsure, “because they’re like previews to your memories. That’s how I know which tunnel to go to.”

Ian looks at the nearest swirl of colors and shakes his head. They’re beautiful—there is no doubt about that—but it is a beauty that he longs to wrap around himself, unlike the kind of beauty a painting in oils possesses.

“So this,” Anthony says, his arms wide open as he indicates everything that surrounds them, “is my mind, basically?”

Ian nods.

“Can you read my thoughts?” he asks, and it might just be Ian’s imagination, but he thinks Anthony sounds a little panicked.

“Not if you don’t want to share them,” Ian answers. “The only things I can see are your memories—and once I step into those memories—your thoughts during those memories. I can’t read your thoughts because they haven’t happened in real life.” He tilts his head, only now realizing that he might not have made sense. “Do you understand?”

“I think I do,” Anthony replies slowly, sounding a bit hesitant. “You said, ‘ _not if you want to share them_ ’. Does that mean I can share with you my thoughts if I wanted you to know about them?”

Ian tilts his head and blinks. “In theory, yes.”

“In theory? Wait. Does that mean that no one’s asked you about this before?”

Anthony sounds confused and surprised. Something in Ian warms up with the thought that Anthony _cares_ , and his whole being feels just that bit better. This is one of those moments where if he just stands still, he can pretend that a heart is beating wildly in his chest, that he has a pulse.

If Ian were a human being, he wouldn’t be able to count how many people he has helped over the years. He isn’t though—a human being, that is—so he remembers every single one of them. He remembers their faces, their names, the memories he took from them. He remembers their voices, their words, the questions they asked, and the questions they didn’t.

None of them ever asked him about his memories. He understands why they didn’t, of course, understands that they were still busy going over their memories before they leave to go back, and so it didn’t really bother him that they never asked about him. After all, he’s only doing his job, and even though it is not plainly stated that their kind shouldn’t interact with people more than necessary, they still try to not get attached.

So when they never asked, Ian never talked to them about it.

Now, though…now he feels a smile making its way on his face, because here Anthony is, asking about him and understanding when Ian doesn’t have answers.

It’s with a smile tugging at his lips that he responds. “Yeah. You’re the first.”

Anthony nods, before asking, “well then, how do I share my thoughts with you?”

“You’re supposed to think about it very hard, I think,” he says even when he’s unsure about it because he knows Anthony values his opinions, just like he values Anthony’s.

There is a kind of camaraderie between them that Ian knows he will cherish long after Anthony’s gone—an easy relationship with open communication on both sides. Anthony trusts Ian with his memories, and Ian trusts Anthony with his thoughts.

The horrible feeling of guilt floods him when he realizes that he doesn’t quite want Anthony to leave.

-.-.-.-

There was a girl, years before.

Ian still remembers everything about her—her brilliant smile, her beautiful eyes, everything. Yes, he remembers every single detail because it’s what he was made for, but he knows that if he were human, he would still remember a lot of things about her.

Her name is Melanie.

Ian remembers her because her memories are some of the best he has had the privilege to keep. She had been angry at first, of course, and her anger was quickly replaced by sadness, but after a while, she had stood up and nodded to herself, stepping into memories with Ian without complaint.

Before she left, she hugged Ian, a sad smile on her face, and said, “you’re a good person.”

She was gone before Ian could tell her that he wasn’t a person.

-.-.-.-

It is three weeks in when Ian lies on the couch, his arm thrown over his eyes, and says, “I hate this.” His voice is soft, and he feels like he shouldn’t really tell Anthony about it—it doesn’t concern him, after all—but he doesn’t care. He lets the silence overtake the small room he’s created, and listens to Anthony’s breathing. It’s strangely calming, he thinks, like a lullaby.

Eventually, Anthony responds. “I hate this, too,” he says, and is Ian just imagining the uncertainty in his tone of voice?

Realization dawns on him, and he quickly sits up, opening his eyes. “I don’t hate you,” he hastens to say, because to be honest, Anthony is one of the best—if not _the_ best—people he has ever had the pleasure to encounter. “I meant to say that I hate _this_. I hate that I take memories. I don’t get some perverse pleasure in it like you would believe.”

Anthony blinks at him before directing his gaze to his feet instead. “I didn’t believe that,” he says softly.

Ian lies back down on the couch. “I know,” he says after a few seconds of silence. “It’s just that most people do.”

Closing his eyes, he wonders if he could fall asleep here, wrapped in the warmth Anthony’s psyche exudes, listening to Anthony’s steady breathe in, breathe out.

He wishes he could.

-.-.-.-

In the eyes of the audience, the famous actor Anthony Padilla is standing confidently on the stage, his hand steady as he holds a microphone, a perpetually charming grin on his face.

Ian and Anthony know better, though. Ian could see the little details Anthony’s fans missed—the slight waver in his voice as he speaks, the sweaty palms that held the microphone, the panic he feels as a thousand fans direct their full attention to him.

There are bright smiles on Anthony’s coworkers—most of them are strained, Ian knows, because they have been in the convention for too many hours and their jaws must hurt—and there are brilliant flashes of light from cameras and phones.

Anthony’s voice is small when he says _oh_ in surprise.

Ian closes his eyes, and though physically, he’s still standing beside Anthony, he is actually on stage, seeing everything from memory-Anthony’s point of view.

He feels everything.

He feels like he can’t breathe, like the walls are slowly but surely going to trap him. He feels a thousand pair of eyes on his person and he feels like he’s going to faint. Surely he’s going to collapse because how can these people spend money just to see him? They’re not going to get their money’s worth, he fears, and oh, is that his heart beating wildly? What if they see how nervous he is? They’ll lose interest and he can’t have that happening, but what is he supposed to do?

Ian opens his eyes. He looks at Anthony and gives him a sad smile.

At least this, he’ll forget.

-.-.-.-

Ian falls in love in a made-up memory.

The moment Ian steps into Anthony’s psyche, something inside him screams _wrong, wrong, wrong_. He still feels the warmth, the feeling that he is welcome—the feeling that he’s coming _home_ —when he opens his eyes and sees color all around him, but there is something different as well, and he can’t for the life of him tell what it is.

To say that he’s confused is an understatement. In all the years he’s been doing his job, this is the first time he felt something wrong and hadn’t been able to quickly identify what it was. In retrospect, he really shouldn’t be surprised—Anthony, after all, has managed to be different from all the others.

When he gets to where Anthony is seated on the leather couch, he tilts his head as he sees the nervousness visible on Anthony’s face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, concerned.

Anthony looks up, and Ian tenses when he sees that instead of looking happy, Anthony looks even more nervous at the sight of him. Anthony clears his throat, says, “nothing,” before seeing the confusion reflecting in Ian’s blue, _blue_ eyes. He makes an effort to look more relaxed, not wanting to worry Ian. “What about you?” he asks.

“What do you mean? What about me?”

The tips of Anthony’s ears turn pink, and Ian finds that it’s a rather pretty shade of pink. “I mean, does something feel _different_?”

Ian nods. “Yes, actually. Did you do something?”

Anthony stays silent. He stands up, walks toward Ian, and smiles. “Do you want to see what’s different? I can help you look for it.”

Ian shrugs. He might as well—after all, this may happen again in the future, and he needs to know what he’s supposed to do when the event arises again, even though he’s doubtful that someone will manage to surprise him like Anthony does time and time again. “Fine by me,” he says, and he walks, and walks, and walks.

Eventually, he arrives at what he thinks is the reason everything feels different. The walls are a beautiful mix of bleeding reds and vibrant oranges. There are splatters of yellow and deep dark hues of purple in between streaks of gray and green and blue.

For a few moments, he can do nothing but look. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t understand how he felt _wrong_ just a few minutes ago.

Hesitantly, he walks toward the tunnel, Anthony following behind him, and enters a memory that doesn’t exist.

He feels the grains of sand beneath him, and he smells the salty ocean air. The sun is setting, painting streaks of red and orange and yellow across the darkening sky, looking like it’s going for a dip in the ocean. The wind feels cool on his face, and he can hear the sounds of distant birds flying overhead and the roaring sound of the ocean as it crashes on the shore.

Ian looks back at Anthony, surprise evident on his face.

Anthony shuffles his feet, managing to look small despite his and Ian’s height difference. “You said you wanted your own memory,” he says softly, his head still bowed and his eyes still focused on his feet, “and you said that in theory, it’s possible to share thoughts with you, so I tried doing it.” He pauses before looking up and directing his gaze to Ian. “It’s not bad, is it? We can leave if you want.”

And Ian…Ian feels _something_. It’s light and fluttery and it makes him warm inside. “It’s beautiful,” he says truthfully, because Anthony worked hard on this memory and he deserves to know how beautiful it is. “I appreciate it.”

It’s then when he realizes that _oh_ , Anthony has managed to worm his way under Ian’s skin, has managed to make Ian _feel_. He knows that it’s not there—standing in front of the ocean, wordless, as Anthony runs towards the waves—when he falls in love with him, knows that it’s been happening all this time, slowly but surely, but he also knows that this is the first time he’s acknowledged the light, fluttery feeling in his chest, despite not having anything—blood, veins, and heart.

He looks at Anthony and sees happiness, sees _home_.

Ian hears the sound of the waves crashing on the shore and thinks, _my heart, my heart, my heart_.

-.-.-.-

There is a woman dozing lightly, a book on her chest. It is peaceful in the room, her breaths steady and sure.

Ian looks at her and smiles sadly. Kalel looks even more beautiful while asleep, dainty and graceful in the way her limbs are perfectly arranged, and Ian thinks that she’s very lucky to have someone like Anthony—kind, caring Anthony who worked hard on a memory for him and proceeded to spend the day making sandcastles—who he has no doubt will take care of her.

Love is like sand—like memories—as well, he realizes. It’s never truly gone.

When Anthony leaves and rejoins Kalel in real life—and Ian knows he eventually will, be it after two more months or two more _years_ —Ian will still be here, on the other side of the veil, keeping his memories—keeping his affection for him—like grains of sand in a bottle.

At least he has the memory of creating a sandcastle with Anthony to get him through.

-.-.-.-

There are bright lights in every neon color, and Ian wants to close his eyes.

He doesn’t, though, because he has a job to do. Instead, he keeps his eyes open and takes in every single detail—the loud bass of the music playing, the crowd of people on the dance floor, the almost unbearable heat in the room. Eventually, his eyes land on younger Anthony.

_Oh_. Apparently, Ian’s reached the memory he honestly didn’t want to see. Why would he want to see this, after all? Why would he want to remember the way Anthony looked at Kalel when he first saw her?

This must be what pain feels like, he thinks distantly as he watches Anthony approach Kalel.

Beside him, Anthony is as still as a statue. It’s his first time seeing Kalel again since before the robbery, Ian realizes, and _something_ inside him falls, a heavy weight he can no longer carry.

He doesn’t want to do it, but he knows he should, so Ian takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Kalel, all long legs and beautiful curves. He feels Anthony’s heart beat wildly in his chest, feels words resting on the tip of his tongue—words like _gorgeous_ and _wish I could talk to her_ and _she’s stunning_.

Ian leaves memory-Anthony’s mind and opens his eyes.

Anthony is still standing beside him, his gaze still on Kalel. He looks like he wants to touch her, like he wants to hug her and never let go.

Even in a memory, Kalel’s kind of beauty is like that of an oil painting—still so very much beautiful and still so very much untouchable.

Ian tamps down the urge to break down and cry.

-.-.-.-

There was a man, a long time ago.

His name is Patrick, and if Ian’s memory serves him right— _it always does_ —he would be about thirty years old by now.

When Ian met him, he was a thirteen year-old boy, and Ian was only a few years into the job. What separated him from the others was his choice—his _mind’s choice_ , to be exact—to forget rather than continue on remembering.

Ian can still see very vividly the bruises on his skin—some red, some yellow, some blue and black and violet—not quite unlike a tragic painting, his skin serving as the canvas to colors caused by years upon years of abuse.

His mind had become so stressed out from the years of torture he had endured from his father that it had chosen to call upon a Smarati to wipe Patrick’s slate clean of scenes of abuse.

When Ian stepped into memories made of swirling colors of black, white, and varying shades of gray, he always covered Patrick’s eyes.

Now, Patrick is thirty years old, and he still doesn’t remember.

Ian hopes it stays that way for a long time.

-.-.-.-

“I don’t want to forget this.”

Ian looks at Anthony, sees the pain in his eyes, and feels guilty as he closes his eyes and opens them to see the world in memory-Anthony’s point of view.

He wishes he could see the world in memory-Kalel’s perspective instead, so he can pretend that the ring is meant for him.

-.-.-.-

It happens one month and two weeks after the accident.

As Anthony leads Ian to another made-up memory—one made up of clear blue skies and endless green grass—Ian thinks if he were human, his heart would beat wildly in his chest.

When Ian walked towards Anthony a while ago, Anthony had looked nervous. Ian would never get that, he knows, would never understand why Anthony would ever feel nervous about making memories for Ian when Ian has expressed his gratitude time and time again. Anthony has absolutely nothing to fear.

He doesn’t know what makes him do it.

He can say it’s the beautiful blue sky overhead, can say it’s the cool breeze, can say it’s the general feeling of calm that the made-up memory exudes, but he doesn’t, because he truly doesn’t know.

All he knows is that even though a thousand thoughts are running through his mind—thoughts about Kalel, about how very _temporary_ this will be, about how _awkward_ it has a huge chance of being—he puts his hands on either side of Anthony’s face and kisses him.

Ian is surprised when Anthony kisses back, his hands settling on Ian’s hips, comforting, never demanding.

Ian relishes in the feeling of kissing and being kissed, tries to remember every single detail he can about the kiss—Anthony’s soft lips, his hands on Ian’s hips, the way every touch of his tongue feels like a caress. He tastes sweet, like fresh ripe fruit, and tastes salty at the same time, and Ian feels a little confused until he realizes that _oh_ , those are tears streaming down his face.

Anthony is the first to pull away—being the one who needs to breathe—and Ian has never hated humans’ need for air more. He doesn’t panic as Ian expects he would, though—he _really_ should stop expecting anything from Anthony because he’s proven that he will surprise Ian time and time again—instead, he smiles brightly. Joy is reflected in his warm chocolate eyes, and he wipes away Ian’s tears with a thumb.

When they get back to the room Ian created for Anthony, there is a comfortable silence between them. Anthony doesn’t mention Kalel, and so Ian doesn’t ask.

Ian remembers Anthony’s confession. “I love her, but sometimes I feel like there’s someone else for me out there, and I feel like the wedding’s going to be a mistake,” Anthony had said, and Ian _wants_ so very badly to be _the_ someone else Anthony thinks exists out there. He _wants, wants, wants_.

He’s pathetic, he realizes, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have time to care after all, not when Anthony might return any day now, not when time seems to be too fast, counting down the moments Ian has with Anthony left, like sand in an hourglass.

-.-.-.-

Like all other things, it comes to an end.

The moment Ian steps inside Anthony’s psyche, he feels wrong, and not in the way that he knows Anthony has just conjured another memory for him. He runs, and runs, and runs until he reaches Anthony, still lying on the bed, his eyes wide open.

“What’s happening?” he asks, and Ian can hear the panic in his voice.

There is nothing inside his chest—Ian knows this very well—but why does it feel like something is breaking? There’s a dull roar in his ears, and he vaguely hears himself say, “you’re coming back.”

Their time is up, he knows. After two months of collecting Anthony’s memories—after about two weeks of shy kisses and shared smiles and softly-spoken confessions—Anthony’s time to get back to the land of the living is finally here.

The last grains of sand are falling, falling, falling down the hourglass.

The tears feel hot as they cascade down Ian’s cheeks, and he feels Anthony slowly slip away from him.

He doesn’t want this.

Ian wants to get a knife and slash away at his palms, wants to feel a heart beating in his chest so he could meet Anthony in real life and experience memories of his own with him. He doesn’t want this pain in his chest.

Ian kisses Anthony, desperation oozing out of his every pore. When he takes memories, he feels horrible, feels like the lowest kind of thief, but now there is no hesitation on his part—he kisses Anthony like he’s a man in need of air, and he _takes, takes, takes_.

The need for air becomes apparent, and Ian pulls back. The room is fading around them—Anthony’s bed is back to a hospital bed, now—and the swirling colors of Anthony’s memories are starting to fade, as well.

Anthony is biting on his lip, stopping himself from letting the tears fall free. “I don’t want to forget this,” he says softly, watery brown orbs focused on Ian. “Don’t make me forget this, please, please, please.”

It’s not in Ian’s power to make Anthony remember his time here, but he nods, because who is he to deny Anthony?

Anthony is starting to fade as well now, and Ian kisses him once again, chaste. His body is bent in an awkward position, but he leans his forehead against Anthony’s anyway. He knows it’s not a promise Anthony can keep, knows that like him, Anthony is powerless to resist the rules of his psyche, but still, he speaks, his voice soft and wavering.

“Remember me,” Ian whispers. “Please, please, please.”

Anthony— _sweet, sweet_ Anthony—replies, “I will.”

Ian knows Anthony wouldn’t remember him, but he takes the words at face value. After all, Anthony had managed to surprise him time and time again.

He doesn’t want to forget this. In all his years of hating remembering people’s memories for them, this is the first time he doesn’t want to forget. He wants to remember every detail, wants to keep Anthony and his memories to himself even though he knows it’s selfish.

He takes one long look at Anthony, commits every single detail to memory, before closing his eyes and breathing in his scent—a mix of delicious ripe fruit and something that’s just _him_.

When he opens his eyes, Anthony is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Smosh. Also, this fic is not meant to offend anyone who has had amnesia or who has loved ones who have amnesia.


End file.
